


Sit. Stay.

by fangirlSevera



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, loss of pet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 19:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4111993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlSevera/pseuds/fangirlSevera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the day Mr Pickle passes away, and Harry is out of sorts.</p><p>Merlin wants to help, but is afraid of over-stepping the boundaries of their relationship, which has never been really fully defined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sit. Stay.

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I write more than just about dogs dying! It just so happened that the prompt from my previous story came right after I finished this one.
> 
> Thanks to [cruelest_month](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cruelest_month/pseuds/cruelest_month), forever correcting my typos.

Merlin jogged up the stairs of the tailor's shop. At the landing, Harry was just exiting the dining room. He was looking out of sorts, which was not uncommon for Galahad after a meeting with Arthur.

"Everything all right?"

"Hmm?"

"The old man couldn't have had too much to berate you with this time."

"No, no," Harry said, still distracted.

"You weren't hurt..." Merlin raked his gaze over Harry's ever impeccable form. Merlin hadn't been running Galahad's op this time, but received the preliminary sitrep: mission successful, no friendly casualties, agent unharmed. But Harry had more than once kept injuries to himself, calling them "mere trifles," and teasing Merlin for his mother-henning.

Merlin had received his vindication once when "a simple strain, don't fuss," turned out to be a fracture of Harry's scaphoid bone.

"No," Harry repeated, and brushed past Merlin to head down the stairs.

Merlin glanced at his watch. He technically still had three minutes before his own meeting with Arthur. So, he followed Harry down to the shop. "Are you ill?"

Harry turned on his heel to face Merlin. His skin was a touch pallid, his eyes tired. His shoulders had an almost imperceptible hunch to them. On anyone else, it could have been chalked up to an understandable exhaustion after a mission. But Harry always returned invigorated by the excitement, eyes bright with undispitated adrenaline (which Merlin on more than one occasion helped relieve Harry of one way or another). "I'm fine," Harry insisted firmly.

Merlin watched Harry's retreating back, lingered as he walked past the shop window until finally out of Merlin's sight. Jackson, the tailor who watched the scene (discreetly of course) raised his brows at Merlin in sympathy. Merlin let out a short sigh. Nothing to do about it now. His internal timer was telling him he only had the mere seconds it would take to get back up the stairs to make his meeting with Arthur on time.

If Arthur could tell that Merlin was half-distracted, he didn't let on. Possibly he had exhausted all his admonishments with Galahad earlier. Merlin gave updates on the progress on some of the new and updated technologies for field use (where Arthur pretended to understand all the words Merlin used).

Merlin wanted to ask Arthur his thoughts on Harry’s moods, desperately. But he knew full well it was not his place to pry, especially not behind his friend's back. Harry's despondent visage plagued Merlin through the rest of the day. He couldn't and wouldn’t be satisfied with Harry's brush-off.

It was early evening when Merlin pressed the bell at Harry's front door. He'd been there many times, but had never invited himself over. He was never so presumptive. There was no immediate answer. He knew he should have called first. It was the polite thing to do after all, and could have saved him a trip if Harry was not at home.

He rang the bell again with one hand while the other palmed his mobile phone. Still no answer. No signs of stirring from within, not even Mr Pickle's yappy little barks. If it came to it, Merlin could override the security system. It was his design after all. Merlin counted backwards from sixty in his head then moved his thumb to press the speed dial on his phone.

The door opened.

While Harry always dressed down in the comfort of his own home, his appearance now was downright disheveled. He hadn't shaved in the past twenty-four hours. His white shirt was wrinkled and unbuttoned past his collarbone. His hair, bereft of its flattening product, sprung about in its natural curl. Harry leaned against the door frame. "Can I help you?" He asked, then took a drink of scotch from the glass dangling from this fingers.

"I think I should be asking you that question," Merlin returned. For any gentleman to have answered the door in such a state was quite alarming.

Harry shrugged the shoulder not braced against the door frame. He slowly gave Merlin a once-over and took another sip, considering. "I suppose you ought to come in, if you're coming in." Harry straightened and stepped aside, lazily gesturing Merlin inside.

There was an odd sort of quiet about the house. Something Merlin wasn't placing right away. Perhaps it was just a product of Harry's melancholy, this funereal stillness. He followed Harry's shuffling steps into the sitting room. The curtains were drawn, a small end table lamp cast the dark oak of the walls and furniture into deep shadow.

"Harry, what is wrong?" Merlin asked, taking a seat in the wingback chair only after Harry gestured to it in invitation.

Harry didn't answer. He slumped back into the settee, rumpling himself further, and took another drink. He stared at Merlin with a narrow, inscrutable look.

In the continued silence, Merlin discerned what was missing: The tapping of claws on the polished floor, the tinkling of tags, the low grumbles emitting from a pile of brown fur curled up at Harry's hip. Merlin's heart and stomached dipped in dawning comprehension. "Harry," he licked his lips. "Where's Mr Pickle?"

Harry sniffed once. "He was diagnosed before I was dispatched to Kosovo. Pancreatitis. Advanced. Chronic. I left him in the best possible care, but-" he sniffed again. "I received the call on the plane back. I had him put down this morning, right after I left the shop."

"Oh. I'm so sorry."

Harry shrugged one shoulder in acknowledgment of Merlin's inadequate condolences. Harry Hart always did his level best to exemplify English stiff upper lip-ness. Merlin had never seen him so... Well there was only one word for it: Heartbroken. It made Merlin's own chest tighten.

Harry looked so damned miserable, Merlin couldn't help but move. He crossed the room to Harry's side, settling a hand on his shoulder.

Of the near decade of their acquaintance this was not what they did or who they were. They were colleagues. They occasionally went out for drinks. Sometimes, with or without drinks involved, they ended up in each other's beds. There was no hand holding, shared meals, nor the pouring out of hearts over late night phone calls.

They never sat close to each other on a settee, offering their mere presence as a gentle comfort.

If Merlin had allowed himself to develop the feelings that made him long for those kinds of things with Harry, that was his own private mistake.

He fully expected to have his conciliatory gesture brushed away. To his great surprise, Harry shifted closer, turning into the touch until Merlin had a nose-full of dark curls. Merlin adjusted his grip, wrapping an arm around Harry's waist. He buried his fingers in Harry's soft hair. Maybe it was taking advantage of the situation to indulge himself so, but hopefully it was soothing for Harry as well.

They stayed like that for several silent minutes. Then Harry breathed deeply and finally spoke. "My apologies for such a display." He was muffled by the fabric of Merlin's jumper. "I've had plenty of _people_ die on me. More than one I may have considered a friend, and I was not affected so."

Merlin did pause in his gentle stroking. He spoke softly. "Maybe because you didn't love them. Not the way you loved that wee pup."

At that, Harry started laughing, a startled, choked sound. He lifted his head. Merlin let his hand slide away. Harry's eyes were red-rimmed, but dry. "Then what the fuck would become of me if I were to ever lose you?"

Merlin stopped breathing for the briefest of seconds. Harry was smirking, but his eyes sincerely fond.

Merlin cleared his suddenly dry throat, and his breath returned. He found himself unable to articulate the feelings and thoughts the implication of Harry's words had engendered. All he managed was "I'm not going anywhere," in a rough whisper.

"So, you'll stay?" The tentativeness in his voice was a foreign sound. Harry's hand fell to take Merlin's where it rested between them.

"Stay?" Merlin's brow creased looking at their joined hands.

"The night."

The crease deepened. "I didn't think you were in any state for-"

"Not for that!" His expression warred with being amused and a touch distressed. "Now that you're here, I'm finding your company may be the cure for my dispiritedness."

"If it's what you need, of course I'll stay."

Harry's responding smile was the first one of genuine pleasure since Merlin's arrival.

The evening passed unlike any other time they'd spent together. Merlin was given a proper tour of the mews house, having never seen much other than what lay between the front door and the bedroom. There was Harry's sparse office, walls covered in front pages of _The Sun_. Yesterday's issue, the front page already torn off, proclaimed some rubbish about a footballer and his affair with a food product. He walked around the room examining the dates of the pages on the wall more closely. The earliest one was from November 1984. The timing was not lost on Merlin, familiar with Galahad's file. His first mission after passing the Kingsman candidacy trials.

Merlin couldn't help but chuckle. Harry was watching him, a smirk pulling at his mouth. He directed Merlin's attention to the famous _Freddie Starr Ate my Hamster_ headline. "Our first together, you know. Much better than _Rogue KGB Agent Detonates Suitcase Nuke._ "

"Not quite the same ring," Merlin agreed. He gazed about the room one last time before being led away, admiring the measurement of a life in jobs well done.

The library was far more impressive than Merlin would have been ashamed to admit he had predicted. He'd never seen so many first editions in a private collection.

"My father's passion," Harry admitted, "not mine. You can take anything that strikes your fancy," he added with a shrug, watching Merlin carefully run a finger across faded spines.

The settled there in the library, sitting together on a chaise lounge, or rather Merlin sitting up by the arm of the chair as he skimmed through a dusty _Casino Royale_ (Harry scoffed when Merlin pulled it from the shelf). Harry was stretched out on his back, head resting on Merlin's thigh. Harry regaled him with stories of his training days, especially involving Mr Pickle. He had chosen the little dog much to the bemusement of his fellow candidates who opted for the more obvious "tough" dogs.

"I figured," Harry explained, "what does it prove if you can train a breed already known for their trainability? A German Shepherd or Lab would have been too easy." Merlin's hand absent-mindedly returned to stroking Harry's hair as he talked. "The other candidates took the piss, especially when I gave him his name. Better than some of the ones they came up with. Reginald, the biggest twat of the group, called his Rottweiler 'Butch,' if you can believe it. He was clearly overcompensating for his self-perceived inadequacies of masculinity."

"And you were perfectly confidant in that regard."

"Utterly." Harry sighed. "You know what terrible thought I had today?" Merlin prompted him to continue with an inquisitive hum. "I wished that the bullets had been real." Merlin remained silent then, letting Harry clarify in his own time. "What was the death of an animal I'd been around only a couple months, as opposed to losing a beloved pet of eleven years?"

A few cliché platitudes came to Merlin's mind, but he knew better than to voice them. He just kept his fingers moving, and Harry seemed more than content with that.

When Harry announced that he was tired, Merlin wondered where he was to sleep, and wasn't sure if he should ask. Harry eliminated the quandary by taking Merlin's hand, pulling him from his seat and leading him upstairs. He didn't let go of Merlin's hand until they were in the familiar surroundings of Harry's bedroom. A testament to Harry's mood of the day, the bed was unmade. The sheets were bunched near the foot. The pillows were askew, including one on the floor.

"I don't have anything to wear," Merlin realised out loud. Not that being naked in Harry's presence was anything new, but he felt that the celibacy of the evening dictated some modesty beneath the sheets.

Harry shook his head fondly. He opened a bureau drawer and removed two sets of pyjamas. Both were silk, one a pristine white the other powder blue. The blue set he handed to Merlin. The bottoms were a touch loose, his waist slimmer than Harry's and there was no draw string to help. His arms were too long for the top, and he decided to forgo it, too uncomfortable. Harry had changed and fussed about the bedding: Straightening and plumping pillows, pulling and smoothing down the sheets. He sighed in satisfaction.

They slid into opposite sides of the bed. Harry switched off the lamp by his side, plunging them into darkness. "Thank you," Harry said.

Merlin fished for a proper response "You're welcome..." He cleared his throat.

Harry let out a deep breath. "I promise I'll be better tomorrow. In the morning I'll even make staying worth your while."

"That's really not necessary," Merlin started in a rush. Jesus, that Harry would think that Merlin would think he still owed him sex...

Harry chuckled. "I meant that I'll make breakfast. My omelets are fantastic.

Merlin was glad that Harry couldn't see him blush. "Oh. That's all right then."

Harry's laughter petered off. Silence fell except their even breathing. Then Harry shifted. Merlin felt the fabric of his pyjamas brush his bare arm. Merlin sensed the hesitation and turned on his side. He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, coaxing him closer. Merlin fell asleep with Harry pressed to his side with an arm across his chest.

===

Merlin woke up in a bed that wasn't his, a room that wasn't his and with something making him overly warm. The confusion passed as quickly as he was able to squint up at the not unfamiliar ceiling. He took a deep breath and let it out, forcing the hand resting on his bare chest to slide across his skin.

Harry.

Merlin closed his eyes again, squeezing tight.

The hand was still, and Harry's breathing was deep and even, ghosting against Merlin's ear. Merlin turned his head. His nose almost brushed Harry's as he did so.

Once or twice when they were both out on the same overnight mission, he'd seen Harry sleep. But those times his body was still tense, primed to react to the slightest hint of danger. He'd never seen Harry comfortable and relaxed in his own bed. Here Harry was all softness, face pressed into the pillow, his curls becoming a nest above him.

The past twenty-four hours had been filled with firsts. All of them giving Merlin a taste of what he’d always secretly longed for. It was a sweetness that turned bitter in the light of day. Harry had been vulnerable, grieving. He couldn't hold Harry to any proclamations made when under emotional duress. And the more he considered the previous evening's conversations, Merlin wasn't entirely certain any such proclamation had actually been made. Not in so many words, never repeated.

Merlin dared to gently brush a finger along Harry's cheek bone, a delicate sweep under a closed eye. Harry's eye twitched, but didn't open.

Refusing to submit himself to this personal torture any longer, Merlin lifted Harry's arm and slid soundlessly from between the sheets. He paused to see if his bed partner would wake, but Harry merely rolled over into the warmth Merlin left behind. A piercing stab of fondness forced Merlin to turn away. He padded into the en suite bathroom. Slowly, he engaged the lock.

He splashed cold water over his face, trying to waken himself further. He looked at himself in the mirror, droplets running off the end of his nose, clinging to the short, unshaved stubble. What was he doing here? This was so far off the routine. Nights with Harry consisted of fantastic, rigorous sex, staying long enough to catch his breath, then heading home (or Harry heading home, depending). He never had to be concerned with morning breath for instance. Merlin licked his teeth in disgust. Necessary hygiene overriding the decorum of not snooping had Merlin searching through the drawers and cabinets for an unused toothbrush. Thankfully, there was one. He'd have to remember to buy Harry another in recompense.

He opened the bathroom door a crack and checked that Harry was still asleep before stepping back into the room. He wondered if he could get dressed and be out the door before Harry did wake. They wouldn't see each other again until next time they were at the shop or mansion. By then they both would have had the space to process the previous evening and decide whether to never speak of it again or...

Harry grunted. He clutched the pillow Merlin had been laying on closer, and buried his face deeper into it.

Harry _had_ asked him to stay. He was probably still hurting. He even talked about having breakfast together. To leave now would not only be cowardly, but even more unforgivable: rude.

It wasn't worth trying to figuring his own feelings much less Harry's intentions without having any caffeine. Merlin grabbed his glasses and threw on the pyjama shirt he had forgone in the night, not bothering to button it. He made his way to the kitchen. The appliances were all gleaming stainless steel. The counters were a bright, mottled marble. Underneath one sat two silver bowls: One filled with water, the other with a few bits of kibble. Merlin swallowed hard at the sight of them.

He filled the kettle at the tap and set it on the stove. He stood there, staring at the immaculately clean surface, willing the water to boil faster than chemistry dictated.

A pair of arms slid around chest. Merlin didn't jump despite Harry's entrance being silent. The chin that rested on Merlin's shoulder was still scratchy with morning whiskers. "I said I was going to make breakfast," Harry said, voice still thick with sleep. Harry turned his face slightly, his nose nuzzling a sensitive spot behind Merlin's ear. Merlin shivered. Clearly having felt the reaction, Harry smiled and continued his teasing.

Merlin grabbed the hands clasped around his middle and pulled them away. He turned around, forcing Harry back a couple steps. "We need to talk," Merlin reluctantly said.

Harry blinked a couple times, his muzzy brain taking in Merlin's words. "Well, those are the four most ominous words in the English language." He leaned back against the island counter and crossed his arms.

"I just wanted you to know that I understand that yesterday- That the past couple of days have been rather emotional for you. And I won't hold you accountable for anything you have said while you were vulnerable. Not to mention drinking." Merlin nodded, relieved to have said his piece.

Harry, however did not at all look relieved. He stared at Merlin, mouth open, brows knit. "Was there anything in particular I said while I was 'vulnerable' that you took offense to?"

"Offense? No. I just didn't want you to be embarrassed if you said some things you didn't mean in your delicate state. You weren't quite yourself."

Harry laughed darkly. "Spare me from the polite prevarications. Firstly, I'll thank you to leave it to me to know when I am and am not myself. And for the record I am always myself. At least with you I am. I am far less worried about the things I've said and more so about what _you_ haven't."

Merlin glanced away. "I don't know what you mean."

"I'm not one for insecurity, Merlin, but when I tell someone I love them, and all they do is deflect and ignore it... Then only to broach the subject to question my sincerity, I can't help feel my confidence dwindling. Waking up alone didn't help either."

Merlin flinched. "I am sorry about that. But I didn't want to presume..."

Harry's arms dropped to his side, bowing his head. He took a deep breath and raised his head and looked Merlin firmly in the eyes. "No, I suppose you wouldn't. Neither of us have been very forthcoming. But I had an epiphany recently. Despite our training, despite having it hammered into us explicitly not to become too attached to anyone or anything... Losing Mr Pickle proved that one can pretend not be too attached, but when it comes down to it, pretending doesn't negate the feelings' existence, so better to act on them than let them go to waste."

The screeching of the kettle saved Merlin from having to reply immediately. He welcomed the excuse to turn away from Harry's eyes, trying to flay Merlin open with their intensity. He moved the kettle off the heat. His brave Harry. Laying himself bare, having allowed Merlin to see him at his most sensitive. Who needed Merlin to comfort him through the night. Merlin always let himself believe that it could have been anyone. Someone like Harry could not be in want of companionship.

Merlin was ashamed of the assumptions he had placed on Harry, built up as a barrier to protect himself from imagined hurts. He owed it to Harry to be honest, to save him from the torment he was clearly suffering for Merlin. Torment Merlin never intended.

He turned back around. Harry's jaw was set defiantly, but his eyes were as large and deep as ever, flickering between hope and resignation as they scanned Merlin's face.

"I do love you," Merlin confessed. "How can I not?"

Harry was on him in a flash. His gun-calloused fingers were sliding along Merlin's jaw as their mouths met. Merlin's hands grasped Harry's hips, pulling him closer, eliminating any space between them. Merlin's lips parted on a wet gasp, and Harry took advantage, his tongue a slick slide that deliciously contrasted the rough rub of stubble creating a stinging friction.

Harry growled. Or at least, Merlin though he had growled. Harry pulled back (not without a quick bite to Merlin's already abused lower lip) laughing. "Sorry. I honestly haven't eaten anything since I've been home." Harry's stomach grumbled again in confirmation.

Harry shooed Merlin out of the kitchen so he could get to work without distraction. Merlin went back to the bedroom and put back on yesterday's clothes. There had been a weight he never even knew he had been carrying, aware of it now only because of its absence. He could feel himself smiling the entire time. _Like a love-sick fool._ He chastised himself. He shook his head. No, no censure. Harry was right. Life, especially a spy's life, was too short to deny themselves. To hell with Arthur's disapproval, or anyone else's.

Harry, still in only his pyjamas and dressing gown was setting the dining table when Merlin came back down the stairs. "I hope you don't mind that I'm not properly dressed."

"I believe you are allowed some concessions in your time of mourning."

"I should be wearing a black armband then, shouldn't I?"

"I believe a toast is Kingsman tradition to honor a fallen comrade."

"You are correct, as always, my dear Merlin."

Harry nodded at the seat across from his own, and they both sat. They raised their tea cups. "To Mr Pickle," Merlin said, solemnly.

"Mr Pickle," Harry echoed.

Harry was not exaggerating his cooking abilities. The omelet was the most delicious and decadently cheesy he ever had. Harry knew how to spoil him.

"You keep glancing at the clock," Harry accused him. "Am I boring you?"

Shit, he hadn't even noticed he was doing it. "You may have your post-mission days off, but I still need to check in. I have projects on."

"Phone in. Take the day. Unless you're running missions. I'm sure your minions can last a day without you. They may even manage to not blow anything up, or melt anything."

"Hmm, tempting..."

Harry's eyes glittered at the choice of word. He licked his lips and leaned forward. "I'll make it worth your while. And this time I'm not referring to my culinary skills."

Merlin downed the last swallow of tea and fished his mobile from his pocket. Harry chuckled at his enthusiasm. Merlin made his necessary calls while Harry cleared the table. Done with his chore, Harry passed behind Merlin and gave him a kiss on the head and muttered something about getting dressed. It took another ten minutes to convince his underlings that he was not coming in due to terminal issue. Fuck, was he really that much of a work-a-holic?

Finally able to put the phone away, Merlin went in search of Harry. That's when the doorbell rang. "Get that, will you?" Harry called from upstairs.

Merlin opened the wall panel that revealed the security panel with camera display. A man in a brown uniform was at the door, two boxes at his feet. "Were you expecting packages, Harry?" Merlin shouted back.

"Yes!" Harry came down the stairs looking much more like himself. His trousers and shirt were neat and pressed. His hair was slicked back from the shower, and Merlin wondered if he could convince him to not put any product in again. He had rather enjoyed being able to comb his fingers through Harry's curls, and as long as they kept to the house, surely Harry didn't need to plaster them down.

Harry eagerly signed for the packages and pressed Merlin into helping carry them inside. They were wooden crates, one was stamped FRAGILE on every side. Harry reached into a closet and removed a pair of hammers. "Help pop these opens, would you?" He asked, handing one to Merlin.

Merlin knelt on the floor and used the pronged end to tear the top off the heavily marked crate while Harry tackled the other. The top came loose with a creak. Merlin shifted it to the floor and pulled away the soft packing material to reveal what lay within.

"Jesus!" Merlin recoiled, landing back on his arse. "What the fuck is that?" He looked up at Harry, wide-eyed.

"I thought that'd be obvious," Harry said blithely, pulling a mahogany shelf from the other crate. It had small brass plaque affixed to the front of it. Merlin didn't need to look closer to know what it said.

Any hopes Merlin had that it was merely custom-made facsimile were dashed upon closer inspection of the crate's content. It was definitely Mr Pickle himself, positioned as if he were merely sleeping in the nest of packing material.

Unnerving to say the least.

"So, you plan to mount him like some sort of hunter's trophy over the mantelpiece?"

"Heavens no! He wouldn't go with the drapes. I thought he'd fit in better with the insect collection."

Merlin glanced over at the door said collection was behind. "The downstairs loo."

Harry made a confirming hum.

Merlin shifted his stare back to Harry. "You need counseling. You're clearly mad from grief."

"Don't be overly dramatic." He waved a hand flamboyantly.

"If you wanted his remains, why not just keep an urn?"

"Cremate him? We're not Vikings."

"No, but... You're not normal, you know."

Harry grinned wickedly. "And you've already said you love me. Can't take it back. Now, are you going to help me put up the shelf or not?"

Merlin stood, giving the hammer in his hand a spinning toss. No, no backing out. "Of course."

 


End file.
